


Hagiographia

by oneiriad



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 06:57:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6363997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneiriad/pseuds/oneiriad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And so it was that in the Year of Our Lord 808 Lord Aethelwulf of Wessex embarked on a pilgrimage to the holy city of Rome accompanied by his youngest son, Alfred. And as they were travelling through the wilds of Francia, they were set upon by a group of rapacious heathens, who desired nothing more than to spill Christian blood and make martyrs of the pilgrims.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hagiographia

They first receive word of the pagan fleet shortly after having waded ashore in Francia, as they’re eating their supper at the table of a local village headman, who refused to take their claims of being mere pilgrims to heart and had insisted on a hearty meal.

“Ragnar Lothbrok has sailed up the Seine?” he asks the headman, repeating what he has just been told to be certain that he did not mishear.

“Yes, so they say. The fires have been lit and the lords who hold the lands along the river are gathering their forces.”

“Perhaps - perhaps my father chose a poor year for us to undertake this pilgrimage,” Aethelwulf wonders, his voice a murmur to avoid frightening the boy in his care.

“It is no matter,” Father Prudentius insists. "We’ll only need to follow the river a short way, then we’ll turn east and go around the heathens. It will merely make our journey a little longer, that is all.”

***

As it turns out, Father Prudentius manages to vastly underestimate the amount of land a besieging army needs to forage to keep itself fed - though, in all fairness, so does Aethelwulf himself, and he’s supposed to be the one with experience when it comes to warfare.

He recognizes the leader of the foraging band. He’s acquired new scars since last he met him and he’s grown somewhat broader, yet more like his terrifying bear of an uncle.

“Greetings, Björn Ironside,” he says, keeping his voice steady and making sure Alfred stays behind him.

Their armed guards lie dead and men are already busily pulling off their armor, while others have herded the monks together, despite Father Prudentius’ indignant squawks.

“Lord Aethelwulf.”

Björn does not smile as he returns Aethelwulf’s greeting.

“What has it been? Three years? Or was it four?”

“Four, I believe,” and Aethelwulf stands his ground as the viking prowls closer.

“Four years. Not a long time. Not a long time at all. And yet - here you are - acting as if we’re supposed to have forgotten.”

“My father - he told me what you did. How you slaughtered them. All of them. Even the children,” and Björn is pulling an axe from his belt, a wicked looking thing. “Those people were from my mother’s earldom. I knew those people. I had friends among them. Tell me, Lord Aethelwulf, tell me: why should I not kill you right here and now, why I should not spill your blood as a sacrifice to them? Why should I not kill you like my father killed the other Lord Aethelwulf, the brother of the other lying Saxon king?”

And suddenly the viking darts forward and grabs Alfred by his forearm, drags him forward as Aethelwulf is seized and held when he tries to follow, tries to defend the child.

“Or perhaps - there were children among the people you murdered. Children I knew, children I used to play with. Tell me, Aethelwulf Childslayer - why should I not give them this child? Is he yours? That would be appropriate, wouldn’t it? For your son to slave for your victims in the next life?”

Björn is raising his axe, Alfred scrabbling uselessly at the hand wrapped around his tiny throat, and for a moment it occurs to Aethelwulf that all he need do is keep his peace for a moment longer. All he need do is let Björn do this, and Aethelwulf’s line will be safe, despite all his father’s schemes.

All he need do is nothing and the cuckoo will be gone.

Except he cannot do it.

“He’s Athelstan’s son!” he shouts and the axe stops.

“You lie!” but Björn is already turning the boy around, forcing his chin up to inspect his face.

“No, I don’t. He’s Athelstan’s, not mine. That damned monk seduced my wife while we were away fighting in Mercia. She was pregnant when you left Wessex.”

Björn is still glowering at him, but the axe is back in the belt, and that’s all that matters for now.

***

He manages to persuade Björn Ironside to bring Father Prudentius as well, but the other monks are left to his men’s tender mercies. Aethelwulf tries not to think of it, convincing himself that they’ll merely be made slaves.

He’s put on a horse with his arms tied to the saddle behind his back and Alfred in front of him, secured by a rope around their midst. It’s an unpleasant way to travel. He feels the horse’s every move as it is led by Björn himself, and the man doesn’t set a slow pace.

Still, it is three days till they reach their destination.

In the evenings Aethelwulf attempts to make small talk - “I hear that congratulations are in order, that your uncle has married a Frankish princess” is greeted with a dark look and a “So we learned.”

The next night he tries asking “And how fares your mother, the Earl Lagertha?”

“She’s pregnant.”

“Congratulations. And the father?”

“She killed him on their wedding day.”

After that, Aethelwulf decides that small talk is vastly overrated.

And then they reach Paris.

***

Aethelwulf has never seen so vast a number of men as the army currently besieging Paris. He imagines how things might have gone if Ragnar Lothbrok had brought a similar force to the shores of Wessex, and finds that he’d rather not think of it.

They ride through the camp, between tents and cooking fires and men and women, some training with swords and shields and spears, some tending the wounded.

“You’ve seen battle?”

“Downriver,” Björn replies curtly. “We had to fight our way past a couple of towers my uncle had built.”

Aethelwulf asks no more, and soon he sees familiar faces as well as those who are not - a short man with tattoos on his face looks at him, sharing an unsettling look with a young man whose face is only too familiar - did he make a mistake coming here? Should he have let Björn kill them all three days ago rather than this?

And then Ragnar is there, sitting next to a black-haired woman in strange clothes, and Björn has already dismounted, is whispering in his father’s ear. Aethelwulf watches, sees the exact moment Ragnar learns of the child’s parentage.

“Bring me the boy,” he tells his son in Saxon, and rises, pushing the woman back down as she moves to follow. Aethelwulf watches as Björn carries Alfred into the tent Ragnar disappeared into. Then the man returns to lead Aethelwulf away to a fire, pushes him down next to Father Prudentius, then turns to leave.

“Don’t leave us here,” Aethelwulf calls, because the youth who once ambushed him is watching, and he recognizes the lanky, sour-faced man next to him, gesturing in his and the monk’s direction.

Björn frowns, following the direction of his gaze, then shouts something that Aethelwulf doesn’t understand.

A youth - barely a youth, just a large boy - comes running, a slightly smaller child on his heels. The pair of them listen attentively as Björn speaks. Then he turns back to Aethelwulf.

“These are my brothers, Ubbe and Hvitserk. They’ll keep you company for the night.”

And with that he leaves.

The night is cold and Father Prudentius’ prayers offer precious little comfort. Aethelwulf keeps trying to see outside of the circle of light from their fire. Once a man approaches, but Ubbe raises his head to glare at him and they’re left alone.

He wakes in the predawn chill from a kick in the side, and rolls over to look up at Ragnar Lothbrok, a sleepy Alfred curled up in his arms.

“You will be given horses. And an escort will take you south,” and the man bends down to deposit the child in Aethelwulf’s arms. For a moment, they are face to face, almost touching.

There’s something unsettling about the pagan king’s eyes, something…

Then the man straightens, turns away and is gone.

***

Sunrise catches them already underway, Alfred grumbling mildly at being denied sleep, but Aethelwulf has no doubt that there are good reasons for them to put as much distance between themselves and the main camp as possibly.

They halt at midday to water the horses and eat some bread and cheese.

“What did you and Ragnar Lothbrok talk about?” he asks the boy.

“Nothing, really. He taught me a new board game - hnefatafl, he called it - though I think he was letting me win. And then he gave me this.”

Alfred holds out his hand. In it lies a gleaming silver cross.

***

_And so it was that in the Year of Our Lord 808 Lord Aethelwulf of Wessex embarked on a pilgrimage to the holy city of Rome accompanied by his youngest son, Alfred. And as they were travelling through the wilds of Francia, they were set upon by a group of rapacious heathens, who desired nothing more than to spill Christian blood and make martyrs of the pilgrims. But at the sight of his son in the hands of the pagans, Lord Aethelwulf cried out to the Blessed Athelstan for aid, and lo, the Saint did appear to stay the hand that would have murdered the child. And the heathens were amazed at the holy vision and they fell to their knees before him. Afterwards, they accompanied the pilgrims south, as they most earnestly desired to learn of the true God, swearing to cast aside their false idols and henceforth worship only Him. And when the time came to part ways, they would not let the pilgrims leave until they had sworn that they would ensure that monks be sent to the lands of the heathens to spread the true light. The leader of the pagans had grown particularly fond of the boy Alfred, as the Blessed Athelstan had so clearly shown the boy his favour, and so nothing would do but for the boy to most earnestly promise that he would personally beg the Holy Father for missionaries on his behalf._

From "The Life and Miracles of the Blessed Athelstan" by Prudentius of Troyes


End file.
